Chill breath of autumn
Sears the poppy scarlet red,
On his memory'd cenotaph.
Tears trickle in the furrowed
Faces of young comrades
.....now long dead
Oh friend of mine you are so sweet.
As we talk and talk we carry on.
so little time we have just you and I.
Oh friend of mine you are so sweet.
My friend of mine .
If only you had time.
we would go shopping.
Oh friend of mine
If only you did not have cancer.
Oh friend of mine.
We are forever friends until the end.
Oh friend of mine until we met again.
My sweet sweet friend.
I remember when I was told.
Family in silence.
It’s not fair. The heartbeat of appliances still whining,
I focus on times I thought we’d grow old...
Clouds part with unexplained violence
And our faces begin to pour.
A hundred questions, a doubt
And what else? Footprint in a concrete driveway,
A spark-maker unlit watching seagulls soar
From the soft earth, noise drowned out.
A boy sleeps waiting to wake
To manhood. Creased cheeks quiver,
And what he gets instead are flowers.
Relics in person, I question the ache
That asks why we give rivers
And must move on, while they remain.
Held by the smooth arms of trees,
Swallowed by a blanket of grass.
I ask the plaque what I cannot my brain,
Logic replaced by glassy guarantees
I see right through. He will not rise.
Facing away from a marching sun,
A no longer marching son lies.
It is that feeling
when sleep is to miss
awakening or awake
you believe the heart
pounding it with angels
Today, my heart heaves a heavy weight
Why, O! Why?
The soul crushing goodbye
Fervently I pray,
To see you just one more day
We part ways knowing it not our last
Looking ahead, thinking of our next
But Death, too grotesque, had other plans;
My burden to bear!
Why this painful news,
Only God knows
Wake me from this dream
A cold, unfathomable abyss
That I never want to revisit
We bow our head in sadness
And bury our faces in distress
My heart full of pain resonates its tears
If only, If only
We could haggle out of our demise
Gone too soon
The sheer disbelief
The promises you vowed to keep
Goals to reach before you finally sleep
You may be no more but not in my mind
Still here with me
If only I can see
A staked heart, resounding unbound tears
Forget you not; to miss you a lot
Lost souls, forgotten families
Never to me
Good tales we've heard
From generations long and dead
The happy ending cliche
For your soul, I pray
Here our fate! separated by worlds
While I wait
For the powers that be, to bide us again one day
But more, for in mere simplicity
I will never say goodbye
Forever with me,
My brother, my blood
In Loving Memory of our Lost Souls
This day we free you from pain
Soulful companionship you gave.
Eyes of love looked over my disdain.
Tail of happiness wagged with rave.
Dalmatian your breed, with a loving creed,
Named, Heidi, in youth with innocent face,
Growing beautifully as a spotted breed,
You gave us love, we could never replace.
Mourn thee for a while, and then moved by style.
You loved me, now thee is free.
I have no denial, thou has heavenly compile.
We shall love thee, beyond eternity.
Long are the years you have lain your easel down
Longer still the sun at Botshebelo burnishing your skin
In the soft autumnal retreat of your heart
You could still hear children playing in the mission station
You saw with what glee they jigged in Sophiatown
And bled for your brothers enchained in District Six
Away in the quiet slumber of a land you loved
You wrought the blazing colours of a secret rage
of man's will thriving in his limbs
of an enduring passion for hope
in the dance of stoic joyousness
in the embrace of a Mandela
Not a shaft of light escaped your hunt for
traces of your childhood
were lost the spare airs that filtered through shanty-towns
Your world was a world of people
going about their chores with premeditated caution
endowed by need with the guile for survival
People for whom you lived
People who live on in your veins
uninterred in your carved canvasses
(Poem read by the author at Sekoto's funeral in Neuilly-sur-Marne, France)
(c) T. Wignesan, Paris - 1993. (Pub. in the Journal of Comparative Poietics , Vol. 2 & 3 (Paris), 1993 & in Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.Net, 2008.)
Black face preacher boy smiling, Pittsburgh black boy
Come snow white all my sins away
Come ladle and spoon the church Jehovah's joy
Come altar me to kneel and pray
Black face boy, jumping up and down in glory
From end to end of dais yearning to jump the cage
Pulpit acting like a stage, I feel the kingdom rage
In the follicles of flesh, tell sin's story
Bring back the flock, O, Jesus saves
Bring back the word cross the blue waves.
O but my black face preacher friend is silent
Face skyward and no word is said
And in my heart, memory makes lament
Donald Leroy Crowder is dead.
From 1925 to now is long, long walk
A long walk for a black child, all the way to Canaan's home
And everywhere a truth seed grows in some fertile loam
And I too out of it, a full flaming stalk
But when church is full the silence
Is sorrows secret evidence.
Black face preacher boy smiling, lighting the word
In dark hearts and twisted places
I tell them do not cry, there's more to be heard
Waiting for the morning, traces
Of sorrow swept away, waiting for the dawn
To come singing, you and that choir, and the angels winging
Silence, the black boy salvation in white rejoicing
O let the glory come, come dawn
O Christ again, come jubilee
O grave be glad and set us free.
A Travel to Palestine
In a landscape of chlorophyll sprinkled with yellow and red flowers,
neglected olive trees and bushes, my motorbike broke down,
my mobile was useless no signal here and I had a long walk home.
If I only had a donkey I could continued to the hazy blue mountain
that has has always eluded me, moving away from me when sought.
The beast and I could have reached the mountain, over and past it and
ended up in Palestine, old people are respected there; mind some
old men do not deserve accolade, like Henry Kissinger, a man of many
sins, but I would flame the downtrodden with the fire of freedom,
and not let them sink into the peace of slaves who have lost how to
dream. I would then give my donkey to another old man and travel to
Amman in Jordan and take a plane home, sit in my room and be glad
that my life had not been futile, and listened with ease as shadows of
assassins surround my home.
but sleep escapes
her face only
my mind quakes
close my eyes
Toss and sigh
the sun will hide